DYSTOPIA (a short story)

Posted on: November 11, 2017

Dictionary definition: dystopia – an imagined place or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad


 “Do you need a sanitary towel or a tampon?” the guard asked.

 “What??” Martha exclaimed, shaking her head as if to try and dislodge the confusion that was within “W-what are you talking about?”

 “It’s regulation”, said the guard “We have to ask you this before we lock the doors for the night”.

 “No I don’t need a tampon”, said Martha, impatiently “I need to know what I’m doing here!  I have no idea why I’m here!”

 “They all say that”, said the guard, tonelessly, slamming the door closed behind her.  

 “Damnit!” Martha shouted at the resolutely shut metal door.

 She turned and threw the pillowcase containing the few possessions she was allowed to keep on the hard mattress.  

 Martha stood in the middle of the tiny, whitewashed cell and looked around her in despair.  It was claustrophobically small.  A metal bedframe and mattress took up most of one wall, with a sink barely larger than a soup-bowl at the bottom.  Against the opposite wall was a table and chair, and next to it was a lavatory, with a push-button set in the wall for the flush.  Directly opposite the door was a window, set high up into the wall.  To see out she would have to stand on the chair and raise herself on tiptoe.  Martha decided to leave that little treat until daylight hours, when she might at least be able to see something.  

 For the past couple of hours she had been kept sitting on a wooden bench in a waiting-room, along with about half-a-dozen other equally bewildered women.  Some were so shocked by what had happened to them, that they literally couldn’t speak.  

 One by one the women had been processed through the Entry System.  Martha had been told to go into a cubicle and strip completely, and don the grim regulation bath-robe which had been left in there.  She was given a cursory medical, which consisted of her being weighed, having her blood pressure taken, and then a doctor barking various questions at her about her medical history.  Directly from there she had been hustled into a communal shower area, where she was brusquely ordered to wash her hair as well.  

 From there she was sent, wet-haired, to a counter in front of some shelves, and given her new clothes.  Some unspeakably horrific underwear in a scratchy, coarse material, which looked as if it should belong to a Victorian workhouse matron, a shapeless navy blue dress, with an equally shapeless navy blue cardigan, some woolly tights and brown, clodhopping shoes.   Martha could have cried with despair at these items alone.  She had also been handed a long white nightgown in a thick linen material, and a face-towel and soap.  The possessions she had arrived with, such as her jewellery, and the contents of her handbag, had all been taken away and stuffed into a large jiffy-bag.  The only personal things she had been allowed to hang onto were her hairbrush and her electric toothbrush.  

 From there they had been escorted into the main part of what Martha could only assume was a prison.  The central atrium was huge, with a domed glass ceiling far above her head.  Three walkways, edged by numerous doors leading to other tiny cells, circled round.  Netting was erected between each floor, presumably to stop desperate women from hurling themselves over the railings.  

 Martha was sensible enough to know that nothing was going to change tonight.  Whether she liked it or not she was going to have to spend the night in this grim little cell, but come the morning she would demand answers.  A wave of homesickness spread over her that almost felled her.  She had been given no way of contacting anyone back home.  Her mobile phone had been taken away from her almost immediately this nightmare had begun.

 On the table was a pamphlet detailing the rules and regulations of the prison, and a small notepad with a cheap pen.  “You are allowed to send out one letter per week”, the pamphlet decreed.  There was no mention at all of how many she would be allowed to receive in return.   FEMALE HOLDING AREA No. 3594 were the words on the cover of the pamphlet.  No. 3594? Thought Martha, was that the number of this cell, or the number of the prison?  Holding Area??  

 Reluctantly Martha changed into the long, baggy nightdress and lay down on the mattress.  There were no sheets or a duvet on the bed, only a fawn-coloured blanket to pull over herself.  Martha tried to go over what had happened before she had found herself being bundled into a windowless van by some faceless guards wearing helmets with full-face visors, and flak jackets, and brandishing truncheons.  

 All she could remember was that she had been spending the night with Jerry in a city centre hotel.  They had been having fun snapping silly pictures of each other on their mobiles, as they had romped together in the en-suite bathroom.  “Don’t you DARE put this on your Facebook page!” Martha had laughed at one point.  

 She couldn’t remember anything after that.  Anything at all.


 Somehow she had managed to snatch a few hours sleep.  It had taken her a moment, on waking, to get her bearings, and for one optimistic moment she had hoped that the whole thing had been a dream.  Unfortunately it wasn’t.  Martha reached out and touched the bare wall.  It was solid.  The whole bastard thing was real.  

 A bell rang out loudly, and the overhead light snapped on, blazing into her eyes.  There was movement beyond the metal door.  She could hear footsteps tramping rhythmically along the metal walkway.  It was daytime.  Good, I might get some answers, she thought.  

 Suddenly a hatchway, set into the bottom of the door, shot up, and a bowl was shoved unceremoniously through it, skidding slightly along the bare concrete floor.  It contained a vile-looking grey mush, which was presumably meant to be porridge.  

 “Hey!” Martha ran across the room and hammered on the door “When do I get to see someone?  You can’t keep me in here all the time!”

 “The Governor will see you later this morning, now pipe down”, came a disembodied voice from the other side of the door.  

 The food in the bowl was disgusting.  It tasted and smelt every bit as unpleasant as it looked.  Martha prodded at it with the plastic spoon she had been allocated, but couldn’t bring herself to eat any of it.  

 “I guess I’ll have to go hungry for now”, she said, putting the bowl on the table.  Her appetite was non-existent anyway.  The prospect of getting up any urge to eat in her current worried state was remote.

 For the next couple of hours she sat at the table and tried to compose a letter to her parents, but the whole thing felt ridiculously surreal.  She had no idea where she was, or why she was there.  She also had little confidence that the letter would reach them.  She listened out for the noises surrounding her, hoping that it would give her some clue as to what was going on.  At one point she heard a woman sobbing nearby, who was quickly silenced by one of the guards shouting “quiet in there!”

 Finally there came the rattle of a key in the lock.  Martha leapt to her feet.  One of the guards appeared in the doorway and gestured for her to come out.  

 Martha was led along the walkway to the stairs.  There were other women also tramping along the metal floor, all of them with their eyes cast down, as if desperate not to catch anybody’s eye.  Martha noticed that all of them, like her, were fairly young.  There didn’t seem to be any over the age of 40.  

 At the bottom of the stairs she was led to a wooden bench in a side corridor which led off the main atrium.  She found herself sitting with 4 other women, who were all instructed not to speak at all.

 “Inmate 594, Governor”, said the Officer who showed her into an office.

 “Come in 594”, came a grinding, emotionless voice.

 “My name is Martha Chartley”, said Martha, having to adjust her eyes to the brightness of the desk light.  

 It seemed to have been deliberately fitted that way to disconcert visitors, a trick Martha had seen done in old gangster movies.  

 “You are now Inmate 594”, came the voice again “You left your name behind when you entered the main gates”.

 “You make it sound as if I entered voluntarily!” Martha protested “I don’t even know why I’m here!  What have I been charged with?  The last I remember I was in a hotel with my boyfriend, and now suddenly I’m in prison?!  None of this makes sense!”

 “Try not to get excited 594”, said the Governor.

 “But please tell me why I’m here!” said Martha “I have a right to know!  I may not be an expert on the Law, but I do know I am entitled to know what I have been charged with, and I am entitled to make a phone call!”

 “These aren’t normal circumstances 594”, the Governor leaned forward on her desk, and Martha almost recoiled.  She had never seen someone so ugly and desiccated in all her life.  The Governor was gaunt to the point of emaciation, and her skin seemed to have been pulled back tightly, and resembled aged parchment in texture.  By contrast her teeth seemed too large for her face, like a mummified skeleton.  Her hair though was thick and dark, and piled on her head like a badly-fitting wig.  

 “What’s happened?” said Martha, who felt close to tears “Can I at least telephone my parents?  They will be worried sick if they don’t hear from me soon”.

 “It is in your best interests to accept your new life 594”, said the Governor “Try and go with the flow as much as you can.  Keep your head down.  Any rebellion or infringement of the rules whatsoever will result in severe punishment, and may even entail you being taken up to Level 9”.

 “Level 9?” said Martha “What the hell is Level 9?  You make it sound like a computer game!”

 “It is not a game, I can assure you”, said the Governor “Very far from it.  This is your reality now, 594, and as I said, it is better for you to accept it”.

 “But at least tell me why I’m here!” Martha shouted “You owe me that much at least!”

 “I owe you nothing, 594”, said the Governor “Take her out, Officer”.

 “Very good, Governor”, said the uniformed officer, who tapped Martha on the arm and indicated the doorway.

 “What happens to me now?” said Martha, when they had got back out in the corridor.

 “For the time being you will spend most of the day in your cell”, said the Officer “Apart from two 30-minute periods, in the morning and the afternoon, when you will be allowed to go out into the exercise yard”.

 “How long am I here for?” said Martha “No one’s even told me that!”

 “That hasn’t been decided yet”, said the Officer.   


 Back in her cell, Martha stood in the middle of the room and chewed on her fingers.  The thought did cross her mind that she had died and gone to Hell.  Although she couldn’t imagine what she had done in her short 22 years on Earth to merit this level of punishment.   And in any case, Hell didn’t exist.  It was only complete religious nutters who believed in it these days.  

 After another disgusting meal had been shoved through the door – this time a kind of watery stew, in which floated gristle and mashed potato – Martha was summoned out for afternoon exercise.  She had a hope that with this she at least might be able to communicate with some of the other inmates.  

 The exercise yard was a small walled area off the ground floor.  There was a wooden canopy for when the weather was bad, but otherwise most of the women walked around in a desultory circle.  Martha scanned the grey sky looking for signs of normality, such as the contrail of a plane going over, but it was hard to see anything other than the grey clouds.  

 She noticed a girl standing towards the edge of the yard.  She had a dyed pink streak in her hair, and Martha gravitated towards her.  Nobody had mentioned a rule about No Talking, and she thought that someone who had put a pink streak in their hair might have something more of a spark to them.  

 “My name’s Martha”, she said, when she got near her.  

 The girl looked at her with a “so what?” expression.  

 “What’s your name?” asked Martha.

 “Amber”, the girl mumbled.  

 “Look I know this is going to sound really dumb”, said Martha “But I have no idea where I am or why I’m here!  I was hoping you could help me”.

 “None of us know why we’re here”, said Amber.  

 “You mean you have no memory of getting here either??  How long have you been here?”

 “A few days … I think.  It’s hard to keep track of time here.  Each day’s exactly the same, it all rolls into one”.  

 “Why is everyone so damn dopey all the time?” said Martha “Everyone seems to just be accepting it!”

 “No one’s accepting it”, Amber spat “You think any of us want to be here?  If we’re dopey, as you put it, it’s because They haul you off to Level 9 for the slightest thing”.

 “What’s so bad about that place?” asked Martha.

 “I don’t know”, Amber shrugged “All I know is nobody ever comes back from it”.


 Martha tried not to torment herself with thoughts of home.  Every time she thought of her parents, Jerry, her friends, her pet cat Delilah, she felt swamped by grief so acute that it was physically painful.  Did they have any idea where she was?  What was happening to them?  Was this some weird, nightmare new world?  She had come across scenario’s like this in books and films, of a grim new era, where people were treated callously, like cattle, by a brutal totalitarian system, but it was the stuff of imagination, of fantasy.  How on earth was a person supposed to function, when they didn’t know if this was only going to last for a time, or if she was condemned to it forever?

 And what kind of a prison was it that only had young women in it?  Where were the old lags?  Oh God, I’m not in some kind of alien breeding farm am I?  But as the days rolled by, nobody came to hassle her for anything.  She was left sitting perched on the edge of her bed, staring up at the sky through the window of her cell, and wondering what the hell was going on.


 She had left her letter to her parents in the designated slot outside her cell door one morning.  When she had returned from the exercise period it had gone.  Deep down she had no confidence that it would reach them though.  But she had no other way of letting out her feelings, so she sat down and wrote one to Jerry as well.

 Dear Jerry, I have no idea where I am.  Did they get you too?  Are you in a men’s prison somewhere?  I’ve tried standing on a chair in my cell here and looking out through the window, but all I can see are the grey roofs of the rest of the prison.  I don’t know what happened.  I seem to have some kind of amnesia about  how I got here.  I’ve tried going over and over it in my mind, to try and bring it all back, but I can only remember a bit about some guards hustling me into a van, and before that, being in the bathroom with you.  This is all so awful.  There is no one I can talk to here, apart from a girl I meet sometimes during Exercise, and we have to be very careful how often we’re seen talking together.  We’re allowed no TV, no Internet, no radio, no newspapers, so I have no idea what’s going on.  They tell me NOTHING ….

 She had to force herself to break off there.  She didn’t want to use up all the paper in the flimsy notepad, and the pen seemed the sort that would run out in no time at all.  She resumed her usual stance of staring at the patch of sky through the window.


 Perhaps it’s some kind of Reality TV game-show?  She thought, desperately.  Perhaps there are hidden cameras everywhere, spying on me, relaying my long, boring hours to people sitting at home with nothing better to do?  But no.  No one I know would be cruel enough to put me through this as a joke, and anyway, there must be laws against doing it to people without their permission.  The TV company would have the arse sued off them if they did this to people in the form of Entertainment.  


 Trying to keep clean was becoming a priority.  Apart from the tiny basin in her cell, Martha had no means of attending to personal hygiene.  Her hair was starting to bother her greatly.  She wore it long and wavy, and was used to washing it in a hot shower every day.  She had tried rinsing it in the sink, but it had only been able to dab at parts of it.  Her electric toothbrush was running out of power, and there was no way to recharge it.  Martha had to resort to rubbing her teeth with her finger instead.  Worst of all was the fact that the one small roll of toilet-paper, which had been left on the floor in her cell, had run out, and no one had replaced it, even though she had asked the guard several times.  


 Amber was leaning against the wall in the exercise yard, absently poking at the brickwork with her fingers.  She seemed even more lethargic than ever, and when Martha approached her, her eyes widened with a “don’t speak to me, They won’t like it” expression.  But Martha was desperate for some form of human communication which didn’t involve a uniformed drone giving non-committal answers.

 “What did you do on the Outside?” asked Martha.  

 “I was a chef”, Amber mumbled.

 “Cool!” said Martha, who was genuinely impressed.

 “It was no big deal”, Amber shrugged “It was just in some grotty chain pub.  The hours were awful.  But I had plans.  I wanted to have my own place one day, but I guess all chefs have those kind of dreams”.

 “Can you remember anything about how you got here?”

 Amber shook her head.

 “Nothing”, she said “The last thing I can remember was I was setting off for work one morning.  I remember stuffing my chef’s whites into my kit-bag, and leaving a note on the kitchen table that I had to ring Mum when I got home.  She’s not been well lately.  I can’t remember anything after that.  The next thing I knew … watch out”.

 Two of the guards, standing on the other side of the yard, suddenly seemed to be showing a lot of interest in them.

 “We’d better split up”, said Amber, and she set off for a zombie-like stroll around the area.

 Martha felt a spasm of rage.  Goddammnit!  How did They expect people to live without any form of communication whatsoever?  Even as prisoners they were entitled to some basic Human Rights surely?  There were laws about this sort of thing.  


 She wasn’t terribly surprised when Amber didn’t appear at the next Exercise Period.  Martha had a feeling They would try and punish her this way.  By now she knew better than to try and ask anyone what had happened to her, and for all she knew, she might accidentally make it worse for Amber just by asking.  

 The daily life (if it could be called that) in the prison had that effect on you in the end.  It sucked all the life out of you, and left you utterly listless and defeated.  


 They came for her in the middle of the night.  She had feeling that this was Their favourite modus-operandi too.  Occasionally she had heard muffled noises during the nocturnal hours, which had suggested some kind of clandestine activity was afoot.  

 She had been lying in her bunk.  The overhead light had been off for hours, so it must have been very late.  The metal door was suddenly flung open, and two guards, both with scarves tied over their faces as if they were fearing infection, appeared.

 “Get your clothes on 594”, one of them barked “You’re coming with us”.

 Martha knew better than to argue, or to expect any answers.  She had to suffer the humiliation of stripping off her nightdress in front of them, and scrambling into her clothes.

 “Get a move on, 594!” said the second guard, sounding almost panicky.


 In the dead of night they escorted Martha through the slumbering prison.  She was taken down to the ground floor, and then along a corridor, a different one to when she had visited the Governor’s office.  At the far end was a large service lift.  The guards accompanied her inside, and one of them jabbed at the buttons on the wall.

 “Level 9, huh?” said Martha.

 “Be quiet, 594”, said the other guard, with monotonous predictability.

 Curiously, Martha didn’t feel afraid at all.  In fact, she felt stimulated, her curiosity aroused.  She had no idea at all what was on Level 9, but she found it hard to believe that it could be any worse than the four walls of that tiny, claustrophobic cell.  

 When they emerged from the lift, Martha could hear a sound like a large clock ticking nearby, and the squeaky creak of wheels going round.

 “Are we in a bell-tower?” asked Martha.

 “We’re below the main part of the bell-tower”, said a guard.

 Martha was more astonished that one of them had actually answered her than anything else.

 “In here”, said the guard, shoving her through an archway on the left hand side of the corridor.

 To Martha’s joy she found herself facing a row of shower cubicles.  

 “Wash yourself thoroughly, including your hair”, said the guard.

 Martha didn’t need telling twice.  She pulled off her clothes and dashed into one of the cubicles.  She turned on the taps and steaming, hot water poured out.  She stood underneath the shower head and luxuriated in the feel of the water rinsing all the grease out of her hair.  The shower was basic to say the least, with just one slither of soap and a threadbare towel, but after what she had had lately, it made her feel like a Hollywood movie star.

 “Don’t take all day, 594”, said one of the guards, her voice muffled by the scarf.

 “You’ve no idea what it feels like”, said Martha “To be clean again!”

 When she had dried herself off and put her clothes back on, the guards ushered her back out into the corridor.  Martha noticed that there were doors on both sides of the passageway, and at the end a short flight of steps led up to another one.   She was taken to the one next to the shower room.  The door was thick and solid, with a turning-wheel on the outside, like the sort you find in bank vaults.  

 She was shown into a large room, which had six human-sized cages arrayed around the outside, two to each wall (the fourth wall was largely kept free for the door).  In the middle of the room was desk and a chair, resembling a nurse’s station in a hospital ward.  In each cage was a bunk, a basin and another push-button flush lavatory.  To Martha’s surprise there was a man in one of the cages.  She hadn’t seen a man since she had been in this place.  All the inmates and the guards had been women.  The man, who seemed to be in his 30s, with several days growth of beard on his face, jumped off his bunk and clung to the bars of his cage, staring at her open-mouthed.  

 “A pretty one”, he said, approvingly.

 The guard who appeared to be in charge of the room got up from her chair and stared at Martha in surprise.

 “Are you sure she’s supposed to be in here?” she asked one of the escorting officers “She looks as if she should be a solo effort straight off”.

 “No, she’s for this room”, said the Officer “Anyway, we haven’t dealt with 526 yet.  The solo cell is already taken”.

 “Mm”, said the guard, signing a slip of paper “We’ll put her in the corner”.

 Martha was taken to an empty cage on the left-hand side of the room, and locked in for the rest of the night.



 So far Level 9 felt like a holiday compared to what she had known in the main part of the prison.  In fact, at times it felt almost luxurious by comparison.  She wasn’t completely alone for a start.  The cage doors meant she could watch what was going on around her.  Fraternisation between the inmates was still strictly discouraged, but at least she could see and hear them.  She wasn’t holed up in that bleak little cell all by herself.   There was also a thawing in the guards.  They weren’t exactly friendly and chatty, but there did seem to be marginally more warmth in their voices when they spoke to her.  

 Also this part of the prison felt more modern.  The furniture seemed newer.  The walls were painted Magnolia, not starkly whitewashed, and the general lighting seemed softer.  The food still left a lot to be desired, but they were occasionally allowed treats, such as fruit, or a candy bar.  They only got these on the strict understanding that they gave no trouble whatsoever.  She was also given a different set of clothes.  These were lighter, more comfortable, and resembled the scrub outfits medical staff wore.

 Martha also found the constant noise of the clock overhead vaguely comforting.  It was like a mechanical heartbeat.  

 Best of all was that first thing every morning they were all led into the shower room for daily ablutions.  Martha didn’t even mind having the man from the other cage present during this.  He never gave her, or any of the other women any trouble, and Martha got the distinct impression his life wouldn’t have been worth living if he had.  Once a day, just before the lunch-time meal, they were all taken up the steps to an outdoor area.  It was larger than the exercise yard she had known on the ground floor, and even had wooden benches set around the edge.  The walls were far too high to see over, and Martha assumed they must be very high up, as the wind seemed to whistle around them constantly.  Conversation was still discouraged, and they spent most of their time simply strolling around, or sitting on one of the benches staring up at the sky.  


 Through all this Martha felt extremely calm.  It was like being a baby again.  Someone else was taking care of all her basic needs.  She didn’t have to do anything for herself or think about anything.  After the trauma, the loneliness, the fear, the confusion, and the homesickness she had felt in the main part of the prison, this felt like being cocooned.  Wrapped in a pair of strong arms.  

 Before, thoughts of her loved ones had dominated her mind.  Now she found memories of them were receding fast, like random recall from a past life.  They were fading into the distance.  When she did think of her parents or Jerry, it was with a strange numbness.  As if she was viewing them from the other side of a thick, frosted window.  It took her a while to realise that Amber wasn’t there.  She had assumed that Amber had been carted off to Level 9, but so far she had seen no sign of her.  

 She had been there a while before she realised they weren’t the only prisoners along the corridor.  They were returning from Exercise one day, when she noticed that one of the nearby doors was standing open.  She glanced in and saw a good-looking blonde-haired woman standing there, wearing a silk dressing-gown.  On the table behind her stood a pile of books, a bag of make-up, and a bowl of strawberries. When the blonde noticed Martha, her eyes widened in fear, and she shook her head urgently, as if to say “you haven’t seen me”.

 Martha waited until the following day, at the next Exercise Period, when she could ask Eunice, one of the other caged prisoners about it.  Eunice was a very chatty woman, and was constantly being rebuked for trying to engage the guards in conversation, although somehow she never seemed to be harshly punished for it.  

 “Who’s the blonde in the other room?” Martha asked, as they stood on the far side of the Exercise Yard.

 “You’ve seen her?” said Eunice “Probably best not to let on about that, or we might lose our Exercise privileges”.

 “OK, but who is she?”

 “What they call The Solo Inmate.  She’s in there all by herself”.

 “She seems to have a lot of privileges”, said Martha.  

 “Hm maybe”, said Eunice, dubiously “But I don’t think I’d want to be in that cell”.

 “Why?” said Martha “What happens in there?”

 One of the guards blew a whistle to motion that Exercise Period was over.  

 “If you ever see the door open again”, said Eunice “Don’t let on that you have, pretend you haven’t seen anything, ok?”

 “OK”, said Martha, reluctantly.


 During the night the lights were dimmed in the room, apart from the desk lamp used by the guard on duty.  Even the clock seemed muffled during these hours, and instead Martha often imagined she could hear the heart of the building pumping away.  Normally it all helped lull Martha into a state of somnolence very easily, but tonight she was finding it very hard to chase sleep.  Occasionally the guard got up and paced around the room.  When she neared Martha’s cell, Martha would close her eyes, facing the wall, like a child trying to fool a grown-up.

 One thought kept piercing her brain in a way that it hadn’t since she had been in the main part of the prison.  “What am I doing here?  Why am I here?  Why are any of us here?  Where is this place?  What’s happened on the outside?”  She tried to imagine doing a prison-break, but it seemed impossible.  The whole place was sealed up tighter than a drum.  They seemed to be near the top of a very tall tower, the only entrance to which was the service lift she had come up in.  Even if she managed to get into that and back to the ground floor, she would still have to find her way out of the main part of the prison, without being detected by anyone.

 Were her parents still alive?  What had happened to Jerry when she was abducted and bundled into the van?  Were they trying to look for her?  Had she simply become another Missing Person statistic?  A place this size must be noticeable to the outside world, did people not wonder what went on in here, or did they just regard it as another Maximum Security prison?  

 Suddenly she heard a wail of despair go up in a nearby room, a woman had let out a cry of “no-o-o!  No-o-o-o!”  There was a rush of feet in the corridor outside, a scuffling noise, and the jangle of keys.  She then heard some muffled voices, and a stern hiss of “Quiet 526!  Accept it, it will be better for you that way!”

  1.  The blonde woman in the nearby cell.  The one they called the Solo Inmate.  What were they doing to her in there?  Martha couldn’t stand it anymore.  She jumped out of bed and ran to the bars of her cell, clinging onto them as she shouted “What are you doing to her?  What are you doing?”

 The on-duty guard, who had been watching the scuffling in the corridor, rushed over to her, and rapped her knuckles with the short truncheon she carried.

 “Stop it!” she ordered “Be quiet!  Are you insane??

 “Who are you?” Martha demanded to know “You must have been human once!  Who are you, what are any of us doing here?”

 The guard returned to her desk and rummaged around for a small container which was kept in a top drawer.  Martha knew what was coming next.  Soon she would feel the sharp stab of a hypodermic needle in her arm, and oblivion would claim her.  


 She lay in a drugged state for several hours, floating in and out of consciousness.  Most of the time she was in a deep, coma-like slumber, but occasionally she would float to the surface of awareness, feeling as if she was underwater.  On one occasion it felt as though the clock seemed louder than ever, and she vaguely heard one of the guards say “it’s nearly time”.   When she awoke again the prison seemed the quietest she had ever known it.  A very profound form of silence, the sort that – back in her normal life – she had only ever known during a power-cut, when all the electrical items were out of action.  Martha slipped back into unconsciousness again.


 When she finally came back to awareness again, she noticed a ray of sunlight pouring through a window high in the wall opposite her bunk.  For one giddy moment she thought she was back home, in her own bed, and that the whole ghastly thing had been nothing more than a rotten dream.  Then to her dismay she noticed that her surroundings were most definitely not her own little apartment.  

 At the foot of the bed was a wooden wardrobe.  In the middle of the room was a table and two chairs, and hanging on the back of the door was the pale green silk dressing-gown she had seen the blonde prisoner, No.526, wearing.  It was decorated with tiny butterflies.

 “No, no!” Martha sat up in the bed in alarm.  She knew what had happened … she had replaced 526.  

 Two guards came running in from the next room, and hastened to settle her back into the bunk.

 “What’s happened to 526?” Martha demanded to know.

 “Her time had come”, said one of the guards “No one stays in here for very long”.

 “Where has she gone?” said Martha.

 The other guard nodded at a door in the wall facing the window.  Martha noticed that it was handleless, as though it could only be operated from the other side.

 “W-what happens in there?” said Martha.

 “You will find out soon enough”, said the guard.

 And then the realisation dawned on her.  She was in a condemned cell.  She had seen a play about someone on trial once, in the old days when Britain still had the death penalty, and it was set in a room very like this one, and at the end they taken the prisoner through the door with no handle … to face the hangman’s noose.

 “No-o-o!” Martha screamed “You can’t do this!  This is Britain in the 21st century!  You can’t do this!”

 “Calm down 594”, said one of the guards “It’s in your own interests to be as calm as possible”.

 “How can I be calm?” said Martha, almost frozen with panic “And stop calling me 594!  My name is Martha Chartley.  I work in a solicitor’s office.  My parents are called Bill and Jennifer.  I have my own apartment.  My boyfriend is called Jerry, he’s a fitness instructor…”

 “I urge you to be calm, 594”, the guard almost sounded beseeching “If you show fear it only strengthens Them.  It’s what They want.  Try and meet your fate calmly, it will help deprive Them of Their ultimate pleasure, please …”

 The other guard nudged her warningly.  The door in the other room had opened, and the strange prison Governor had appeared.  This time her decayed, paper-like skin had a bloated feel about it, as if she had just been gorging on a meal.

 “Is there something wrong here, Officer?” she asked, gravitating to the doorway which separated the cell from the outer room.

 “No Governor”, said the guard “The inmate is just getting acclimatized to her new surroundings”.

 “You bitch!” Martha yelled at the Governor “You ugly old bitch!  You won’t get away with this!”

 A sickly smirk spread across the Governor’s thin lips.

 “This is going to be one of our best ones yet”, she said to the attending officer, who had to turn away to hide her disgust.

 Martha screamed and ran to the far side of the room.  By now she had lost control of herself completely, and she began to smash her head against the whitewashed wall, repeatedly.




 “This is another dream”, said Martha, groggily.  The pain in her head was horrendous.  “Another cruel dream.  They do this to me.  There is no cruelty they won’t try”.

 “You’re not dreaming, lovey”, her mother put her hand on Martha’s arm and gently squeezed it “Here, feel that, I’m real.  You’re not dreaming”.

 Martha’s focus was blurry, but she could make out that she was in another small whitewashed room.  The only difference was that this time her mother was sitting in a chair, pulled up close to the bed.  In the near distance she could hear the bustling sounds of a normal, everyday hospital.

 “You’re in hospital”, said her Mum “Just for observation, to make sure there are no serious side-effects, but they think you’ll be able to come home very soon.  I expect they’ll want the bed anyway.  They’ve put you in a very nice little side room …”

 “How did I get here?” asked Martha.

 “A lorry-driver found you wandering along the marsh road near Rainbow Farm”, her Mum explained “Very early this morning.  You were in a terrible state.  All disorientated, wearing only a flimsy little nightie.  Your poor little face was all bruised.  He bundled you into his cab and drove you to the police station in town.  They knew who you were the minute you appeared.  Everybody’s been looking for you for weeks.  It’s been quite a big story round here, in all the local papers.  A police officer wants to take a statement from you later, when you’ve had some rest, just to see if they can establish where you’ve been.  Whoever did this to you needs to be caught”.

 “Where was I last seen?”

 “Jerry says he woke up in the hotel room early that morning and found you’d got dressed and gone.  He thought at first that you’d decided to go home.  He wondered if he’d upset you in some way, but he said it was very unlike you not to leave a message or anything.  He’s been almost out of his mind with worry, we all have”.

 “Did anyone see me leave the hotel?”

 “The receptionist on duty said you walked out very purposefully, as if you had an appointment somewhere.  There’s some CCTV footage of you walking out of the main entrance, and then you just vanished.  It’s as if you fell off the side of the Earth.  We’ve tried everything to find you.  Put it all over your Facebook page.  Your friends have been very helpful, spreading the word.  There’s been no trace of you at all ….”

 “I got dressed and walked out?” said Martha, perplexed.

 “You must have done”, said her Mum “And taken your handbag with you”.

 “They won’t find that again!”

 “It doesn’t matter.  Possessions can be replaced.  We’ll get you a new phone.  People can’t be replaced though.  You’ve no idea what it felt like when we got that call from the police this morning, saying you had turned up.  Oh Martha, my poor baby, what happened to you?”

 Martha tried to explain everything that had occurred, but it sounded utterly bizarre to her own ears, as if she was trying to explain a long, rambling and disjointed dream.  

 “They just kept you locked up?” said her Mum.

 “I wasn’t harmed, in the sense that I wasn’t raped or anything …”

 “Oh Marti”, her Mum almost instinctively put her hands over her own ears.  

 “But I think they were going to kill me”, said Martha.

 “Oh!” her Mum gave a wail of anguish “The police will get those evil bastards.  You must tell them everything you’ve told me.  A big building like that can’t be hard to find.  It must stick out like a sore thumb wherever it is”.

 “They won’t find it”, said Martha, with a deadening realisation “I don’t think it exists in this dimension”.

 “W-what do you mean?” said Mum “You sound like one of those strange books Jerry reads, all that wacky Conspiracy Theory stuff”.

 “I think I was taken someplace else”, said Martha “Somewhere that can’t be accessed easily.  It’s not some place that’s Real, not in the here and now anyway.  I realise that all sounds bizarre”.

 “After everything that’s happened over the past few weeks”, said Mum “I think I could believe anything!  Jerry’s been doing a lot of digging around of his own.  Apparently this isn’t the first time that something like this has happened at that hotel.  A couple of years ago a young Spanish girl vanished from there.  A student, over here on an exchange visit”.

 “She disappeared?”

 “The last anyone saw of her was some CCTV footage of her getting into the lift, to go up to her room on the 4th floor, but she was never seen again.  There’s never been any trace of her since.  I feel so sorry for her family, at least we’ve got you back”.

 “I think I must have got back by banging my head on the wall”, said Martha “Somehow that shot me back into this dimension”.

 Martha thought of all the young women she had seen in the prison.  Had they all just vanished whilst going about their daily lives?  Were there some kind of portal areas where the barriers between the worlds was thin enough to slip over?  She thought of Amber.  I must try and find out about her, she thought.  There can’t be many young chefs called Amber who have vanished, I must try and find out all that I can.

 “I’m frightened, Mum”, said Martha “I’m frightened that somehow They’ll get me back there”.

 “Oh now they won’t”, said Mum, squeezing her hand “We’ll see to that.  Who do you think those people could have been though?”

 “I don’t know”, said Martha “But I think They fed on fear.  It was like food and drink to Them.  I think we were all like a farm of cattle, or battery chickens I suppose is a better analogy.  They kept us all cooped up, lonely, confused and afraid, until They could go for the ultimate thrill”.

 Mum shook her head as if trying to process it.  She was relieved when they heard a conflab of male voices outside in the corridor.

 “That’ll be your Dad and Jerry”, said Mum “Now you relax, and let us look after you.  You mustn’t be afraid”.

 “No, I mustn’t”, said Martha.





© Sarah Hapgood and, 2011-2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Hapgood and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Strange Tales on Kindle

Cover of Sarah Hapgood's Strange Tales 5

Mysteries, murders and other tales of the Unexplained from my blog entries,
Strange Tales 5: Mysteries, murders and other tales of the Unexplained
is now available for Amazon’s Kindle, price £1.99. Also available on other Amazon sites.


Cover of Sarah Hapgood's Strange Tales 4

An illustrated collection of 42 more of my blog entries, Strange Tales 4: 42 new cases of the Unexplained is now available for Amazon’s Kindle, price £1.99. Also available on other Amazon sites.


Cover of Sarah Hapgood's Strange Tales 3

An illustrated collection of 35 more of my blog entries, Strange Tales 3: A new collection of mysterious places and odd people is now available for Amazon’sKindle, price £1.99. Also available on other Amazon sites.


Cover of Sarah Hapgood's Strange Tales 2

An illustrated collection of 23 more of my blog entries, Strange Tales 2: more mysterious places and odd people is now available for Amazon’sKindle, price £1.15. Also available on other Amazon sites.


Cover of Sarah Hapgood's Strange Tales

An illustrated collection of 40 of my blog entries, Strange Tales: an A-Z of mysterious places and odd people is now available for Amazon’sKindle, price £2.32. Also available on other Amazon sites.

Sarah’s fiction on Kindle

Cover of Sarah Hapgood's 
Transylvanian Sky and other stories

A second collection of my short stories, Transylvanian Sky and other stories is now available for Amazon's Kindle, price £1.99. Also available on other Amazon sites.

Cover of Sarah Hapgood's 
B-Road Incident and other stories

A collection of 21 of my short stories, B-Road Incident and other stories is now available for Amazon's Kindle, price £1.15. Also available on other Amazon sites.

%d bloggers like this: